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High street shake-out

Woolworths has gone, many other famous stores will disappear, but a new age of shopping will emerge

Traditionally it is the days and weeks after Christmas that are the most terrifying for retailers. The final quarter of the year arrives when rents have to be paid (this year, it is actually on 25 December), the invoices from suppliers pile up, a visit from the VAT man is imminent and the banks start to get antsy about the swelling overdrafts and feeble cash flow. Within days, the corporate undertakers come knocking.

This year the pattern has been different. Amid the carnage of the credit crunch, no one is taking any chances. Even if you are a company such as Woolworths - which takes in 80 per cent of its income in the six weeks leading up to Christmas - impatience sets in. The first thing to go is the credit insurance, the guarantee to suppliers that they will be paid, come hell or high water. When that happens, the sweet factory demands cash for each shipment of pick'n'mix and banks start becoming nervous. Before the directors have a chance to take emergency action, such as selling off a string of stores to rivals, the plug has been pulled.

The demise of Woolworths, a fixture on Britain's high streets for a century, is not that surprising. Its elder sister in the United States died some years ago and its falling share price has been signalling disaster for some time. But Woolworths is far from being alone. Among the reasons that Alistair Darling chose to make a 2.5 per cent cut in VAT the centrepiece of his pre-Budget report is that it has two important characteristics. Unlike an income or corporation tax, it can be administered swiftly - without the need for a complex finance bill. Second, it does help the consumer and the high street.

The sceptics have argued that a few pence or pounds off prices as a result of lowering VAT makes no difference in a year when Marks & Spencer is conducting guerrilla sales tactics ("20 per cent off" days, designed to catch the opposition on the hop) and other high-street chains are permanently holding sales.

Such observations are economically illiterate: by hook or by crook the cut in VAT will put £12bn into the economy over a relatively short period. Even if the price cut is not passed on, it will mean that smaller high-street boutiques may be able to hang on a little longer (by widening profit margins) allowing them to main tain a job or two that might have been shed in recession conditions.

What is different about the present crisis on the high street, which has seen the demise of Woolworths, MFI, MK One, as well as a slump in the shares of DSG (owner of Currys, PC World and the online Dixons site), is that it reflects changes in retailing and the way we shop.

It is no coincidence that the Woolworths on my local high street in south-west London had already closed by the time the administrators moved in and the premises were being refitted as a Tesco Extra.

The boundaries between shopping chains have changed. When Tesco reached saturation point in food sales, at the point where it became subject to regular competition and monopoly investigations, it headed in the direction of diversification. No longer is it just a grocer. It is a newsagent (watch out W H Smith), a clothing retailer (be careful Debenhams), an electronics outfit (no wonder Currys is hurting) and has moved into the video entertainment business (poor old Woolies). Tesco, the dominant force in British shopping, is not alone in this. There is no longer such a thing as a specialist retailer.

The big grocers - Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury's and, to a lesser extent, Morrisons - realised some time ago that while people came to their stores for their daily bread, the profit margins on food are relatively narrow. But if they could bulk-buy products - from fashionable clothes to flat-screen televisions made in China and the Far East - they could become vast department stores. Indeed, the profit margins on the clothes and electrical goods could be better than those on the 50,000 food items.

Even the venerable Marks & Spencer, still the nation's biggest clothing retailer with around 12 per cent of the market, is in the television and kettles business. Consumers who trust M&S with their lingerie needs are not going to doubt that an M&S kettle is as good as one bought from Currys. The need for the general store, of which Woolworths was the exemplar with its eclectic mix of everything from screwdrivers to chocolate bars, is no longer there.

Also undermining the high street is, of course, the internet. Personally, as much as I love browsing in bookshops, new and secondhand, it is a long time since I made a purchase from one. My book shopping is done online through Amazon or the fantastic used-book site AbeBooks. Online sales are rising exponentially, climbing by 54 per cent to £46.6bn in 2007. This is money that is being cannibalised from the high street. Does all of this mean that the high street as we know it is over? One doubts it. But the line-up of stores will change. Tescopoly has its natural limits. In much the same way as Woolworths has been replaced by its modern equivalent, Wilkinsons (which is seeking to buy Woolworths' premises), in some suburban centres, so Currys is going to find itself under pressure from the American import Best Buy, where the emphasis is on expertise and service.

Once it was out-of-town shopping that was the threat. But soon the developers realised that people actually like the social aspect of open-air, high-street shopping and have redeveloped the high street from Bristol to Leeds with open spaces and cafes. The high street is organic and over the coming year or so, as the slump bites, empty stores will proliferate. But don't despair - there will always be an entrepreneur ready to bet on recovery and find ever new ways to claim the shopping pound.

Alex Brummer is City editor of the Daily Mail

Retail carnage

Woolworths - the chain has collapsed with debts of £385m and many of its 815 branches (and 30,000 jobs) are expected to go.

Argos - after reporting its biggest ever fall in sales in October, staff had their hours cut by 20 per cent.

John Lewis - reported a 13 per cent drop in sales, its tenth successive decline.

Debenhams - is carrying nearly £1bn in debts, and profits have dropped by 16 per cent.

MFI - the company went into administration last week; 1,000 jobs will be lost.

Character Group - shares in the firm, which supplies Britain's biggest toy retailers, including Tesco and Toys R Us, dropped 20 per cent last week. The company is now valued at little more than the value of its bank deposits.
JJB Sports - selling off assets to repay £20m loan; JD Sports is considering buying its rival.

Land of Leather - the furniture retailer reports sales down 47 per cent on last year.

Majestic Wine - its half-year profits are down 25 per cent.

Wrapit - the wedding gift-list firm went under in August, taking up to 2,000 couples' presents with it.
Rosebys - the textiles chain closed for good last month - 201 shops have shut.

Hardy Amies - the Savile Row tailor and one-time dressmaker to the Queen went into administration in October, forcing the closure of five of its six UK stores.
. . . and even Tesco has posted its worst performance since 1992, with just 1.9 per cent growth. Shares fell 40 per cent in the past year.

This article first appeared in the 08 December 2008 issue of the New Statesman, After the Terror

Chris Ball/UNP
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The fish-eaters and the fasters

With a population split between whites and Asian Muslims, in some ways Nelson in Lancashire feels like similar-sized towns in Ulster: two communities separated by a gulf of non-communication.

In the late afternoon of local election day this month, the chairman of Nelson Town Council was working the terraces of old cotton weavers’ houses on his patch. Sajid Ali was wearing a red rosette and a navy blue cardigan over his capacious white shalwar kameez, and what looked like his dancing shoes.

This was not the forlorn ritual of unanswered doors, blank looks and curt responses habitually experienced by Labour canvassers even in more promising political times. Along these streets Sajid is a figure of some consequence: a jolly fellow and, as one opponent put it, an “interesting character”.

Almost everyone was in; Sajid knew almost all of them; and they in turn understood what was required. Sometimes a quick burst of Lancy Punjabi did the job: “Salaam alaykum, yoong maan, how yer doing? What time yer coomin’ to vote?” To older voters his spiel would be entirely in Punjabi and the response would often be a head-wobble, that characteristic south Asian gesture, which, when given to Westerners, can be baffling, but in these cases clearly signified solid intention.

The Labour candidate in the Brierfield and Nelson West division of Lancashire County Council, Mohammed Iqbal, held his seat comfortably on the day his party lost control of the county. And he did so on a poll of 58 per cent: a far higher turnout than in any of the other, whiter areas of Pendle; the highest in Lancashire; and higher than wards with these demographics would usually expect even at a general election. The average across Lancashire on 4 May was 37 per cent. It seems reasonable to conclude that the votes from those of ­Pakistani heritage, marshalled by Sajid, were wholly responsible.

Nelson is a strange, sad, divided, forgotten old cotton town, not without beauty. The weavers’ houses are stone not brick, which, elsewhere, might make them rather chic. A few minutes from town is wonderful Pennine countryside, and to the north the view is dominated by Pendle Hill itself, brooding like some sleeping sea monster.

Pendle is both the borough council and the constituency, where the mix of urban and rural has delivered it to the winning side in seven of the eight general elections since its creation 34 years ago. (Labour took it, five years prematurely, in 1992.) No one seriously believes the 5,400 Tory majority is in play. Nonetheless, Nelson can explain a lot about British politics in 2017.

“This was a cracking town,” said John Bramwell (“John the Fish”), who has been purveying cod, haddock and non-stop banter to Nelson for 41 years, first on the market, now from one of the last white-run, independent shops in the town centre. Nelson had a football team that played fleetingly (1923-24) in the old Second Division, what is now called the Championship. And in 1929 the Lancashire League cricket team, flashing cash in a manner that baffled the national press, signed Learie Constantine, the most gifted and thrilling West Indian all-rounder of his generation.

“When he arrived, no one in Nelson had ever seen a black man close-to,” said Derek Metcalfe, the club’s historian. “People would cross the road when he passed by. But he grew into their affections. He was a highly intelligent man as well as a great player.” Constantine, after a post-cricket career in the law, Trinidadian politics and diplomacy, finished life in the House of Lords as Baron Constantine of Maraval and Nelson, Britain’s first black peer. In July 1943 the Imperial Hotel in Bloomsbury accepted his booking but not his presence, and he promptly sued. His victory at the high court the following year was an early landmark in the fight against racial discrimination.

It was the 1950s before Nelson would get used to seeing non-white faces again, when the mill owners, battling labour shortages and overseas competition, turned to Pakistan to find biddable and affordable workers. They found them in Gujrat District, which is not one of the more worldly places, even in the rural Punjab.

“The first group were young men who in many ways integrated better than they do now. There were no mosques. They went to the pubs with their workmates and knocked around with local women. Then they had to go to the airport to collect the intended wives they hadn’t met yet,” recalled Tony Greaves, the Liberal Democrat peer who is deputy leader of Pendle Borough Council.

The mills disappeared, gradually but inexorably, but the Pakistani community kept growing and has now reached its fourth generation. The young men do not normally spend time in pubs; indeed, in a town of 30,000 people, there are only two left, plus a couple on the outskirts. It is hard to imagine anywhere that size in Britain with fewer. There are, however, at least a dozen mosques. The 2011 census recorded 40 per cent of the population as Asian, but on market day in the town centre the proportion seems much higher. The most prominent retail outlets are two bazaars: the Nelson (the
old Poundstretcher) and the Suraj opposite (the old Woolworths). Few white faces are seen in either: the saris and hijabs are beautiful but of little interest. They are all imported to this textile town from south Asia.

The white people have retreated, either out of the town altogether or to the semis of Marsden, on the hill. In the visible life of Nelson, they are clearly a minority. Population change on this scale can be accommodated, if not always easily, in large cities. It is a different proposition in a small town that was once tight-knit and, despite its closeness to larger places such as Blackburn, Accrington and Burnley, largely self-contained.

Even after 60 years, hardly anything has melted in the pot. The early migrants were villagers who placed little value on education. Recent history has led Muslims all over the world to turn inwards, to their own religion and culture. This is being exacerbated by white flight and by the advent of religious free schools, a disaster for anywhere in search of cohesion. The old Nelsonians have turned away. “Nelson is not multiracial or multicultural. It is biracial and bicultural,” says Greaves. “I would love to tell you that I go round to Abbas’s house to have chicken jalfrezi and he comes to mine for steak pudding and chips,” says John the Fish. “It’s just not like that.”

Unemployment is high at 18 per cent; there is no shortage of taxis. Educational attainment is patchy. Teachers at the two high schools fear their best pupils will be creamed off further by the promised grammar-school boom.

The vicar of Nelson, Guy Jamieson, and at least some of the local imams do their utmost to make connections between the communities. In certain respects Nelson feels like similar-sized towns in Ulster: two communities separated by a gulf of non-communication. In other ways, this description is unfair. When Burnley, just four miles away, suffered riots in 2001, Nelson stayed quiet. I could sense no threat, no active tension, merely resigned indifference on both sides. “There’s a poverty of confidence,” Jamieson said. “They don’t know how to sit down and engage.”

***

A modern English town council, subordinate to Brussels, Westminster, county and district, is an improbable power base, but Sajid Ali seems to be making Nelson’s work. Its precept is only £330,000 a year but this is not capped, so it suits both district and town if Pendle offloads smaller assets: parks, play areas, community centres. It is a minimalist form of devolution, but harks back to the days when Nelson was a borough in its own right, and looks forward to an improbable future when our towns might again be allowed to take their own decisions as they do in more grown-up countries.

But the council votes on party lines, Labour’s 16 councillors trumping the Tories’ eight. “They won’t work with us,” Sajid says flatly. “They don’t run it fairly for the town itself,” says the Conservative Neil McGowan. “If we put something forward for Marsden, we are always outvoted. One council official told me they’d never come across a town like it.” In Tony Greaves’s words, “The
politics in Nelson were always sour.” In the 1930s it was known as Little Moscow.

When I first met Sajid, however, he was outside a polling station doing a stint as a teller and laughing merrily along with his blue-rosetted counterpart, Arshad Mahmood. Yet things were not quite as they seemed. Mahmood was part of a mass defection of Pakistani Lib Dems to the Conservatives which appears to have nothing to do with Brexit, extra taxes for the NHS or Maymania. What it does have to do with remains elusive even to local politicians: “clan politics” and “personal ambition” were mentioned. It may be even more complicated than that. “So you’ll be voting for Theresa May next month?” I asked Mahmood. “Oh, no, I like Jeremy Corbyn. Very good policies.”

Perhaps this helped Sajid maintain some enthusiasm for the bigger campaign ahead, though he was daunted by one fact: the general election coincides with Ramadan, and dawn-to-dusk fasting comes hard in these latitudes when it falls in summertime. Still, he was impressed by all the new members Corbyn had brought to Labour: “The way I see it is that each new member has five, ten, 15, 20 people they can sell the message to.”

This seemed a bit strange: it implied he thought politics in the rest of Britain worked as it did in these streets. He had boasted earlier that he knew everyone. “All over Nelson?” “Oh, no,” he had backtracked. “In the English community nobody knows their next-door neighbour.” Which was an exaggeration, but perhaps not much of one.

There were no posters along Sajid Ali’s streets – not one. The information about which house to choose was on the canvass return and, more significantly, in his head. Just once he got it wrong. A little white girl opened the door and then a tattooed, muscular figure in a singlet barrelled towards the door. He wasn’t aggressive, just brisk. “Naaw. I doan’t vote.” End of. It was a sudden reminder of the norms of modern British politics.

***

Another norm is that, at any local count, no one ever thinks much of the big picture. The rise and fall of prime ministers, earthquakes and landslides are no more than distant rumours, of surprisingly little interest to the principals; what matters is the here and now. Where did that ballot box come from? How big is the postal vote? Any chance of a recount? When the five seats for Pendle were counted the next day at the leisure centre in Colne, one stop further up the clanking branch line from Nelson, no one was talking about the Tory takeover at County Hall.

Here there was something for everyone: Mohammed Iqbal won, just as Sajid predicted. Azhar Ali took the other Nelson seat even more easily for Labour. Both results were greeted with more effusive male hugs than would be considered seemly in Berkshire. In Pendle Central the Tories knocked out the sitting Lib Dem, but – heroically, in their eyes – one of the Lib Dem candidates grabbed a seat in the rural division.

But the most interesting result came in the most trifling contest: a twinned by-election for two vacancies in Nelson Town Council’s lily-white ward of Marsden, so electors had two votes each. The seats were won by a Conservative married couple, the Pearson-Ashers, who got 426 and 401; the single BNP candidate had 359 votes, with one Labour candidate on 333 and the other on 190. The first of these was called Laura Blackburn; the second Ghulam Ullah. This suggests a good deal of vote-splitting that Labour might find rather unpalatable.

In fact, Marsden already has one far-right relic: Brian Parker, who sits on Pendle Borough Council, is the last survivor in the top two tiers of local government of the BNP mini-surge that took them to 55 council seats across the country by 2009. Of Parker, two opposing councillors told me: “He’s actually a very good ward councillor.”

Curiously, Ukip has made little impact in Nelson or in Pendle as a whole. So there is not much scope for the party to fulfil what appears to be its immediate destiny: as a way station for Labour’s historic core voters to catch their breath on the arduous journey into Theresa May’s arms. According to John the Fish, whose shop functions as a kind of confessional for white opinion, they may no longer need a stopover: “I’m getting plenty of people, staunch Labourites, telling me they can’t stand Corbyn.”

I asked him how many Pakistani regulars he had. He broke off from chopping hake and held up five fingers. On 8 June the fish-eaters of Marsden can be expected to rouse themselves more energetically than the Ramadan fasters across town.

***

Seedhill, the cricket ground graced by Constantine, is pretty Nelson rather than gritty Nelson, even though a chunk of it, including the old pavilion, was lopped off years ago to form an embankment carrying the M65. Upstairs in the pavilion is a wonderful picture of the great man, eyes ablaze, down on one knee for a full-blooded cover-drive. It would have made a better monument in the town centre than the 40-foot weaving shuttle that has dominated Market Street since 2011. I thought it was a torpedo; children think it’s a giant pencil.

The packed houses that watched Constantine lead Nelson to seven league titles in nine years have dwindled now: there were only a couple of dozen to watch his successors play Accrington recently. But it was a drab day with a chilly breeze and Burnley were at home to West Brom in the winter game down the road.

And generally the club thrives better than the town. Given the lack of hotels and pubs, the pavilion is much in demand for functions, and the team remains competitive. Nelson fielded four local Asians for the Accrington match, which suggests that, in one activity at least, integration is just about where it should be.

It seems unlikely that a similar situation would apply at the crown green bowls or the brass band, or any other of the long-standing recreations in Nelson (though small but growing numbers of Pakistanis are now taking allotments). The knee-jerk liberal reaction might be that this is somehow the fault of the white Nelsonians. I think this attitude is a grave oversimplification that has done much damage.

In one respect the incomers have re-created the old life of Nelson. In the hugger-mugger stone-built terraces, the neighbourliness, the power of extended families, the external patriarchy and the internal matriarchy, the vibrancy, the sense of communal struggle . . . that is exactly what this cotton town must have been like a century ago. 

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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